HE IS JUDAS

After a delightful time working the furries of the Bain Co-op to a frenzied caterwauling in the Cats With No Name Riverdale Dungeon, I now have time to reflect on my brother’s fatuous name.  I’m not even sure he’s my brother, of course—one never is—but genes, like all of us, play games, and one game they enjoy playing is called Splitting the Attributes.  Judas gets brawn, plainness, stupidity, sentimentality, and inarticulateness … I get cunning, beauty, cosmic intelligence, insight, and verbal dexterity.  Which way do you think evolution is heading?  Why am I the one writing the blog?

Anyway, enough silly questions.  A few familial statements.  I am Jesus B. Panoramica.  He is Judas P. Loungechair.  He’s high on quantity, low on quality.  It’s reasonable to say that we’re products of heteropaternal superfecundation.  And if you don’t know what that is, biped, maybe you should go back to school.

Let’s parse his name the way we did quite recently with mine.

Judas.  When your namesake is the cowardly betrayer of the Son of God, what do you do with your life?  Sleep.  Sleep and chirp.  Sleep and chirp and stuff your furry face.  Dumbly wait for death to take you down.  In short, live the way most cats and and all you humans do.

P.  In the way that the B. in my name obliquely yet inexorably refers to the core of all essences, so P. quite obviously alludes to pee and penis.  The former I don't particularly object to—it’s necessary and serves a useful, comic, and occasionally higher and omnipotent function.  But the latter—as all evolved beings know (regardless of their sex or gender)—is an anachronism limply dangling on the crevices of time, waiting for the crack of history to suck it up forever.  Not that my brother has a functioning euphemism … but that, if anything, just proves my point.

Loungechair.  Other than me, rarely has a cat been so aptly named.  A formidable couch slut, he’s staked out the softest pads in the neighborhood and lolls from one to another like some fluffy monorail.   He likes his cushions with crumbs around the edges so he barely has to move to eat.  He spreads himself like a cheap whore, welcoming whatever hands are passing by, then lollygaggles back to his home to inform his indulgent masters (yet again) what has transpired.  Which is nothing.

Nevertheless, he is my brother.  So, like the mafia, I do what’s necessary with him according to the ancient codes.  And, to his credit, he lives his name with the integrity only animals and gods are capable of; whereas you humans distinguish yourselves by partiality, fragmentation, disingenuity, and disaffection.  Perpetually broken identities.  Perpetually broken names.

Until I return again to instruct you in the ways of nature that you’ve conveniently forgotten and to inform you of the Feline Things to Come, consider your name.  Stefano Eeell, perhaps.  Brenda Nothingness.  G.I. Carrion.  Don’t waste today shopping and promoting yourself like everyone around you.  Instead, take a few moments to parse your name.  Look in the hard mirror of identity.  Become what you are.